


Morning warm

by SharpestRose



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breathless, fingers clenching and uncurling and clenching, Frodo gasps a word that might be 'tease' and might be 'taste'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning warm

"I can't decide whether to wake you or let you sleep. Both seem a pity," says the dark-haired hobbit sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed. The subject of his address sleeps on, and with the sigh the speaker drums his fingers on the finely woven coverlet.

"Oh, Sam, I know you're tired, but I want to talk to you," a pause, a smile. "All right, not just talking. Still, if you sleep the whole day away we can't do either."

Sam stirs a little but doesn't wake. His eyes are shadowed, showing how much rest he still has to catch up on, and his observer sighs with worry and crawls up to stretch beside him. They are both nude, and the different shades of their skin contrast like brown sugar and white flour. Sam is shades of gold and copper from his honey-brown foot fur to the lighter curls on his head. The other figure is all cream skin and coffee-dark hair, not as sturdy and healthy as his companion but fair in a queer sort of way. There are so many things wrong with his face, childishly wide watercolour eyes and a terribly delicate jaw, lips so stung-hued and bow-shaped that a lass would sigh at the lack of strength in them, yet somehow all the faults fit together in an oddly attractive way.

Now he opens that soft mouth and sucks on the tips of Sam's fingers, nibbles on the calluses and licks at the curve leading down to the thumb.

"Frodo, stop." The murmur is coupled with a drowsy smile and a heavy-lidded look from Sam.

"Don't think I will, actually," Frodo retorts with a wicked grin. He hums contentedly and curves his body against Sam's, stretching his legs as long as they will go and rubbing his chin against Sam's shoulder. "Mmm, you're warm as a hot Tuesday."

"From a different way of looking, you're cold and chilly," teases Sam lazily, reaching out a careful hand to touch at Frodo's shoulder. "Is it better?"

"A little." Frodo nods, and moves his hand down to thumb gently at the downy line of hair that trails south from Sam's navel. "I've found us breakfast, Bilbo tells me I won't believe the scones they make here."

"Hope you didn't venture out dressed as you are, you'd give the Elves a fright," Sam chuckles, letting his own hand move to cup the skinny angle of Frodo's white hip.

"No, I was properly modest, dear Sam." Frodo nods towards the floor, where his clothes lie in a small brown crumple. The corner of Sam's mouth pinches at the sight, which makes Frodo chuckle and press him down into the softness of the bed. "I'd guess you're currently wishing I was still tucked up safely in my sickbed where I didn't need tidying up after."

Sam shifts, turns, stares into Frodo's eyes. "Never."

Frodo's teasing smile becomes softer, kinder, and he kisses the small crow's feet at the corners of Sam's eyes. There are more of those fine lines now than there were once upon a time.

"Is it still cold?" Sam asks, eyes lingering on the puckered skin at Frodo's shoulder.

"Not with you near," Frodo assures him, and moves in for another kiss, and then another after that. "Let's have breakfast before Merry and Pippin wake and begin to make a terrible racket again."

"Breakfast can wait," mutters Sam into the taste of Frodo's skin, which leads to Frodo laughing and checking Sam's head for injuries.

"I still can't believe you never shared your rhymes with me, Sam. You sat and listened nicely to all sorts of awkward poetries from my pen, and didn't once mention you had a measured metre running in your own head." Frodo laps his tongue against the hard smoothness of Sam's chest, tracing a wet trail that he dries with breathy kisses. "I believe I shall have to keep you close until you stop surprising me."

With a carefully hidden smirk, Sam demonstrates just how long that might be by surprising Frodo with a push of hip and a dip of hand. Breathless, fingers clenching and uncurling and clenching, Frodo gasps a word that might be 'tease' and might be 'taste'.

"I believe this is just the right sort of ending for our adventure," muses Sam, one hand caught in the inky tangle of Frodo's sweat-damp hair.

"Isn't over yet." Frodo recovers his voice and slides up Sam's body again, so that they're breathing the same harsh puffs of air back and forth, lying flush against each other and barely moving, the sense of closeness overwhelming enough without touch added to it. "Adventures have to be there _and_ back again, after all. We've still got that part to live out, you outside my window distracting me as I work, and parties to attend, and tragical dramas between relatives and friends to gossip about. And..." Now Frodo's smile is lewd and lovely, and makes a bolt of aching want shoot down Sam's arms and legs. "Gossip of our own to generate."

"Hoy, sleepyheads!" a voice calls, the doorknob rattling. "Merry and I are getting breakfast, come on or we'll eat it all and leave none for you!"

"Elvish locks," grins Frodo. "He'll never get that door open, try as he will. Pippin's very curious about what lads do together, you see. He's seen all the other combinations thanks to a family of sisters, but everyone in Tuckborough has learnt to draw their curtains at bedtime. And Merry pretends to look scandalised at the questions, though of course he's only waiting until Pippin comes of age."

"Still, we shouldn't waste the whole day in bed," says Sam in a regretful tone. "Lots to do, after all."

"Breakfast, then?" sighs Frodo, moving to get up. Sam shakes his head.

"Not just yet, Mr Frodo." And then Sam presses Frodo down against the mattress with one of Sam's palms over his mouth so that Pippin won't hear the cries, and wraps the other hand around Frodo's hardness. Sam's thumb rubs over the leaking tip and Frodo's hips buck up, his teeth and tongue pressed against Sam's skin and moving hungrily. Sam's wrist moves quickly, strong and efficient, and Frodo gives a low grunt and moves in time with him. Sam whistles out a shush and sucks at Frodo's earlobe. It only makes Frodo's stifled groans louder.

The line of Frodo's jaw tastes like the scented soaps designed for hair-washing by the Elves, and the same soapiness is present over the pulse in his neck but it's warmer and earthier there. Frodo's grunts have become urgent whimpers and his hands are clutching at Sam's hair, guiding his mouth to the mark on Frodo's shoulder. Frodo's own mouth is half-open against Sam's hand, the wet warmth gnashing and nipping in desperation.

Sam hesitates for a second and then licks at the healing wound. It's cold, not icy but holding a chill deep under the skin. Frodo bites at Sam's palm frantically as Sam gives the cut a surer sweep with his tongue. Two more jerks of Sam's hand and Frodo's gone, eyes closing and opening and closing as his hips twitch in release.

They climb out of bed and dress as quickly as they can, and then Frodo drops to his knees and pulls at Sam's recently-buttoned clothes, moving so that Sam's back is against the wall by the door. Frodo's mouth is still wet and hot from earlier and Sam's belly is still wound up in knots.

There is a pot of cream to go with the breakfast scones on the low table under the window, and Frodo's eyes are dark and glittering as he dips his finger in and then licks it clean. Then he scoops up a handful of the stuff and Sam swallows nervously. A trail of cream is painted down Sam's belly and along his shaft, followed by Frodo's tongue to lathe it off in taunting circular swipes. Then cream again, but now Frodo doesn't lick it off. This time he fumbles at his own buttons and turns around onto his hands and knees.

Sam pauses. He doesn't want to hurt Frodo, and a bit of breakfast cream isn't going to do a proper job of this. But Frodo turns halfway round to look at Sam and Frodo's eyes are pleading, needing, and they're locked together and pushing back and forth before Sam can think about it again.

Frodo's arms quiver and he's not sure if he can support his weight with them. He's burning, on fire, heated through to the bone and he'll never be cold again. He's never felt as alive as he does now, with Sam in him and on him and warm and real and sweet. The heels of Frodo's palms slip sweatily on the floor and he and Sam groan together at the unexpected movement. Then a shiver, a shudder, a groan, and they're done. They clean up as well as they can with the edge of the coverlet and each other's tongues.

Breakfast they gulp down hurriedly, laughing quietly together for the simple joy of nearness.

"I don't want to leave this room ever again, but the longer the council's left the longer until we can start our 'back again', I suppose." Frodo grins philosophically and plants a kiss on Sam's mouth. "I don't like going even that far away from you, my skin aches if it's not at least almost touching yours."

"Well, after this you won't have to go anywhere without me again," promises Sam. "Come on now, if we don't go out and meet with Mr Merry and Mr Pippin, we'll end up on the bed again and never get anything done."

"Sounds all right to me," grumbles Frodo, then rests his arm across Sam's shoulders. "Off we go then, eh? 'One last task before we sleep', as the poem says. Speaking of poems..."

Sam laughs, and slips his hand around Frodo's waist, and the two of them leave together.


End file.
